


Wedding Guy

by crackers4jenn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Burn, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9966449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackers4jenn/pseuds/crackers4jenn
Summary: "I'm Castiel. I wanted to let you know I've been noticing you all night, and I wanted to leave this with you, before I left."





	

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this story is based off [this article](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/news/a49185/straight-guy-texting-gay-guy/).
> 
> There is very, very background Dean/Lisa stuff, but they're pretty much already broken up by the start of this story. Sam/Jess also happens peripherally.

Friggin' weddings.

Dean tugs futilely at the bow tie around his neck, cursing anew not only at said evening wear, but also at his baby brother for dragging him here in the first place.

Across the table, which has been mood lit with those flickering LED tea lights, his only companion is an older woman who gives him a knowing smile like she's able to see through his resting 'dead inside' face to the truth within, which currently goes a little something like: _fuck Sam, love is dead, fuck this bow tie, this music sucks, fuck fuck fuck._

He isn't wrong on any of that. Apparently someone hired a DJ to sort through every song from the past decade and pick all the worst ones. That's the assault happening to his ears right now, never mind the constant smothered feeling brought on by the hordes of happy people trapped in a darkened, too-small rec room.

Dean grins at the older lady, raising a toast of cheap whiskey at her that he downs with a cringe.

He's smacking his lips and thinking about a refill when Sam drops into the seat next to him.

"Hey," he says, out of breath despite the daily hour of cardio he subscribes to, which is all the proof Dean needs that that's just a waste of time. "Dude. What gives? I left you here forty minutes ago, you haven't moved."

Not true. He got up once to get some of those mini BBQ sausages. FYI, they were delicious.

"Yeah, well, what can I say. The second you broke out the Macarena, I was glued to the spot." He slaps Sam across the arm. "Didn't know you had it in you, Footloose."

He gets back one of Sam's thin-lipped frowns that translates roughly into: fuck you.

"Hah-hah. Funny, Dean."

"Seriously, it was a thing of beauty. You were--" He chuckles, mimicking one of those inflatable tubes with the flailing arms, and Sam's fuck-you frown hardens considerably.

"At least I'm out there."

"Oh, you're out there, alright," Dean agrees amicably.

At this point, Sam resorts to his usual thirty-second time out trick. During it, he takes a little mental vacation in the hopes of channeling his inner-Yanni, giving himself a moment to dial back into something zen and on the same spiritual wavelength as granola. That's what he says. More like, he thinks if he waits it out long enough, Dean'll grow bored of whatever it is he's doing that's pissing Sam off, and stop. That has literally never happened, but you can't fault a guy for consistently trying in the face of failure.

"Look," Sam says when he comes out of it. He has something in his tone that sets off an immediate bad feeling, which is only solidified when the music cuts from a ballad to something sung by one of those chicks with a dollar sign for a name. Sure enough, Sam hushes his voice. "I get that you and Lisa are having a weird time right now--"

That's as far as Sam gets before Dean pushes back his chair.

"Dean..."

Standing, Dean clasps his brother on the back with both hands, leaning over him from behind. "Nature calls. Think you can handle yourself?"

Sam wants to push it, he can tell. Of course he does, he practically schedules these Very Important Talks in at least once a day. But the old lady across the table ain't even bothering to play coy, she's straight up staring, and the last thing Sam would ever do is make a scene. God forbid. He clears his throat, saying, "Yup," in a forced casual way that means Dean is only momentarily being left off the hook, there will definitely be some opening up of feelings later. Fuck that.

Dean gives Sam's shoulders a good shake, leers at old what's-her-face for the hell of it, and then high tails it for the restroom.

To get there, he has to pass the dance floor, which he does like whatever's happening on that godforsaken swath of scuffmarked linoleum is contagious. He sticks to the shadows, slipping through throngs of minglers. More concerned with avoiding people's faces lest someone mistakes the accidental eye contact for a conversation opener, he isn't watching where he's going, which is why only halfway to freedom he collides into a very solid body.

"Fffffuh--" comes out of him as both a noise of pain and an involuntary respiratory response.

Very quickly a hand wraps around his arm, steadying him, and a dude with the deepest, graveliest voice Dean's ever heard outside of sci-fi TV show villains (okay, and porn) says, "Sorry," like he's the one at fault here.

Dean meets the guy's eyes, and flounders. See, this is why he can't be brought to nice places. Because normal social situations stress him the fuck out, to the point that his response to running into a perfectly nice stranger is to back away, offer up a finger-gun, and then bolt, running into a table along the way.

Smooth. _Real freaking smooth._

Dean hides away in the bathroom long enough that anyone paying attention is gonna start thinking the sausages went bad on him.

By the time he makes it back to his table, some ten minutes and one 'get your shit together, asshat' pep talk later, the old lady is gone and he's forgotten to be annoyed with Sam because now his brain has something else to be preoccupied with. Doesn't mean that distraction is mutual; when his brother spots him, his eyebrows leap to his hairline, and considering the mane on him, that's quite the jump.

"Geez. You fall in?"

Har har har. What a comedian.

Dean sinks into the seat next to him, scanning the crowd. He doesn't spot the guy from before, but still. Knowing he's out there, probably wondering how a freak like Dean survives the world, gives him the heebs and breaks through the last of his willpower. He sets his gaze on Sam, ignoring the overly-dressed caterer that walks by with a plate of cheese and crackers.

"You ready?"

Sam looks aghast. Like he's being physically and emotionally pained. "Seriously? We _just_ got here." What he means by that, and by the look he casts across the room toward where Jess (who is gorgeous and so far out of Sam's league it's embarrassing) is chatting it up with her fellow bridesmaids, is 'please don't make me leave before I work up the nuts to ask her to dance.'

That's why Dean's here in the first place. Sam was invited as Jess's plus-one to her best friend's wedding, but because Sam is a twelve-year-old prepubescent boy at heart, he dragged Dean along as _his_ plus-one just in case he'd read the situation wrong.

It's going great.

(It's really not.)

"C'mon, man, we've been here all night," Dean whines. Doom is starting to close in.

Sam perks up; across the room, Jess is waving at him. One of those small flexing of the fingers that means, despite the laws of nature and finer evolutionary instinct, she might actually be attracted to the giant lug.

Dean does what any good brother would do: straight up bails.

"Alright, Don Juan. I'm out." He gets to his feet.

"Dean," Sam starts to sputter, following up after him like a lost baby duck.

Dean grabs his wallet and finds a twenty. He stashes that in the front pocket of Sam's suit jacket with a pat, smoothing out the wrinkled lapels. "God help me, but you might have a shot here. Ask her to dance, ya mook. And she says no? Grab your balls off the floor and call a cab."

Sam makes a face. "Nice."

"You're welcome."

Sam glances over at Jess again. Taking a deep breath, he lets it all out and looks back at Dean, resolute. "Okay."

"You got this," Dean tells him.

"Right."

"That's my boy."

Sam makes another face -- this one is all exasperation and irritation. Sue a guy for being proud of his brother, especially if it means he might actually be getting laid for the first time in his twenty-two years of life.

After a few seconds of facially communicating back-and-forth ' _go get 'em, tiger_ ' and _'I hate you, but thanks_ ' Dean takes off. Not without first hissing after Sam, "Comb your hair, would you, you look like Natalie Portman!" Needless to say, that goes unappreciated.

As he's taking one last backward glance, just to make sure Sam's actually heading in the direction of the girl and not the buffet table, he nearly smacks into someone again, but a strong hand stops and catches him.

"Hello."

It's the same guy from before. What are the chances? Probably a hell of a lot less likely than whatever the odds are his face is lit pink like some friggin' neon sign blinking LOSER.

The guy says, "Sorry. What's your name?" His voice is as deep as Dean remembers it being, but there's something underneath it, something that adds a pause.

"Uh. Dean."

He's about to tack on an apology for physically mauling him twice in one night like some kinda directionally-challenged freak, with actual words and no embarrassing finger-guns this time please, but the guy is quicker than that.

"I'm Castiel. I wanted to let you know I've been noticing you all night, and I wanted to leave this with you, before I left."

A piece of paper is thrust into Dean's hand. Before Dean's brain can so much as process even a percentage of that, the guy is bolting in a way more successful and dignified fashion than Dean had managed in their previous encounter.

Oh-kay, then.

Dean uncurls the paper -- and turns an even brighter shade of red. Dude gave him his _phone number._

+++

By the time Dean makes it home, he's cycled through all possible emotions; a little weirded out, semi-pleased with himself for being such a damn catch even the gay guys know what's up, confused, flattered.

The decent thing to do is text the guy -- Castiel, he reminds himself; weirdest freaking name _ever_ \-- and let him know he isn't interested. That he has a girlfriend.

Right.

He puts it off for another hour, telling himself he deserves some time to relax considering the living hell Sam forced him into. He needs to change out of his monkey suit a-sap. Shower. Really, he just has no idea what to say. It took serious guts on Castiel's part and Dean's gonna blow him off with, what. The blushing-face emoticon?

A while later, he's got himself burrowed into the couch. Muting the Star Trek episode he was trying to distract himself with, Dean takes a sip of beer that's also part of the distraction process and texts Charlie.  
  

> **From: Dean (10:12 p.m.)**  
>  _? for u: guy at wedding gave me his # what do I do?_

 

He takes another sip of beer and tries not to slip into crisis mode even though he can feel the waves of panic coming in like a fast-moving tide.

He should've just texted Lisa. They'd laugh, she'd tell him to quit leading people on and text the poor guy before he thought he was being blown off by some douchebag dudebro. Dean would've invited her over. Now, like this, it feels like he's making something out of nothing.

His phone chimes.

 

> **From: Charlie (10:15 p.m.)**  
>  _I knew it!!!! Bow down, bitches! Second, and most important, was he hot? Did you get all awkward like you do whenever I mention your raging crush on Harrison Ford circa his Indiana Jones days, aka so hot even I'd hit it._  
>  **  
> From: Charlie (10:15 p.m.)**  
>  _TEXT HIM BACK, ASSFACE!!!!!_

 

That... is all levels of wrong. Like, every part of it. It's so wrong he foregoes texting and hits 'call' instead.

" _He's herrrre, he's quuuueer,_ " Charlie answers with, singing loudly and off-key, " _Mister Gay Amer-uh-cahhhh--_ "

"You're the fucking worst, you know that?"

"Oh, whatever, like that's not a compliment. Sooooo. Tell me everything! Was he hot? I bet he was dreamy."

"You sure you don't want his number yourself? I mean, the way you're swinging right now, gay's about the last thing I'd call you."

"Trust me, unless you're gonna tell me this guy was the spitting image of Tyrion Lannister complete with a hunky facial scar, I am all percent lesbian."

"You're so weird."

"And you got asked out by a dude. Finally!"

"He didn't ask me out. He gave me his number."

"Same diff. Was he cute?"

"You're pretty stuck on that."

"Hey, I'm just trying to help a friend out here."

"What do I do, then? I can't NOT text. Right?"

"You're serious? You're not gonna ride that D train?"

"Dude. I have a girlfriend."

"Dude. For now."

It's like she's related to Sam, for fuck's sake. Like the two of them know exactly which buttons to press to send him from zero to done. "Are you gonna help or not?"

"Well, obvs. If not for you, then for poor gay Harrison Ford you suckered in with your green eyes and bow legs."

"I didn't--" So much of that makes him want to argue back, he has no clue where to even start. It's easier to sigh out his angst and move the hell on. "So, text? Not call?"

"Have you _met_ you? Text, man. Text only."

"Okay. Okay, yeah. Something like... 'sorry, buddy, but my girlfriend keeps me on a pretty tight leash el-oh-el.'?"

Charlie's snort comes through loud and clear, as does the judgment that birthed it. "Wow. No."

"What?" he defends himself with, whining. He hears it, okay. "I told you. I don't know this shit. That's why I'm asking."

"And you swear, on your limited edition Princess Leia lithograph, you're not even the slightest bit interested in this guy? No bi-curiosity rearing its early-adulthood head?"

"I'm trying not to be a dick. The guy seemed nice."

"Mm-hmm."

"Seriously, it took steel balls to drop digits to a stud like me at a Martha Stewart wet dream like that, so. You know. 'Least I can do is pony up."

"Aw. There he is. My humble guy."

"Shut up."

"Alright, alright, fine. You're boring, you know that? And kind of noble, which makes me hate you a little. Text gay Harrison Ford and tell him pretty much what you just told me. Only, minus the masturbatory ego-sesh because, gross."

"Fuck off." Dammit. "You're sure?"

"As Hermione and Harry's one true love, you bet your sweet, freckled ass. Now go break that gay boy's spirit, you stud."

The line goes dead before he can snark back.

But seriously. Sam 2.0 right there.

Energized, or at least fully deluded, Dean wiggles the strip of paper out of his pocket and flattens it on the coffee table in front of him, next to his warming beer.

That is some chickenscratch handwriting.

Pulling up a blank message, Dean makes Castiel the recipient, and eventually this is what he pens after several edits and deleted typos:  
  

> **From: Dean (11:08 p.m.)**  
>  _Hey, it's Dean from the wedding. I just wanted to let you know I have a girlfriend but honestly, what you did took serious friggin guts. Keep it up, man! And have a good night._

 

Good god, his life.

You know what, whatever. Now that it's done and out of his hands, he can move on. Which, after unmuting Star Trek and gulping down the rest of his sweet, sweet room temperature beer, he is definitely doing. Right after he checks to see if his text's been read or not.

It hasn't.

By the end of two more episodes, there's still no word from Castiel and Sam isn't back, so he sends off a quick text to his brother reminding him about the importance of lube and condoms before calling it a night.

Castiel's ripped paper is still right there on the table when Dean gets up. He should throw it away. Well, recycle. Responsible adult here.

Instead, on a whim, he folds it up and tucks it inside his wallet.

And then he really does forget about it, falling into a sleep aided by his ol' pal Blue Moon.  


+++  


The next morning, he has three missed texts, all from the gangly tree branch beside him on the family tree.  


>   **From: Sam (1:55 a.m.)**  
>  _Spending the night at Jess's. No, it doesn't mean what you think it means. Preemptively shut up._  
>    
>  **From: Sam (3:35 a.m.)**  
>  _btw thnanks for coming with me 2night. You're such s good big brother, Dean!!!!!_  
>    
>  **From: Sam (3:39 a.m.)  
>  ** _Jess says hi! HI!!!!!!!!!!!!! Also youre short and not as cute as me. Her words ha ha ha. Not my words. Quit typing what Im saying, Samalright gbye_

 

Well, well. Merry Christmas to him. Dean screenshots all three texts and rapidfire sends it to everyone they mutually know before responding back a thumbs up emoticon. This is going to get him through the next week right here.

Only seconds later, Dean's great mood plummets far and fast when he immediately gets a new text from none other than Castiel, and the actuality of the situation hits him full force, with the bonus of early morning clarity. There's also a message right after from Jo that's a paragraph long string of LOL's, but the Castiel one's tripping him up too much to appreciate it right now.

Dean swings his legs off the bed, into a sitting position. It's super fucking nuts to feel anxious about a text message from a dude who mistook you for a guy who might want to possibly eventually fuck, right? There's no reason for it. That's a compliment.

But what if it's like, a retaliatory dick pick?  
  

> **From: Castiel (10:32 a.m.)**  
>  _Hello, Dean, thank you for responding. :) I appreciate the time you took to do so. In the shared spirit of honesty and forwardness, I never thought you would, only because I was so awkward. I believe I also owe you several apologies for 'bulldozing' into you much of the night. Anyway, your girlfriend is lucky to have you. Have a good morning as well._

 

Damn, the guy's just so nice. Dean knows for certain he wouldn't handle any kind of rejection this well. Knows for a fact. (Case in point: Bela Talbot his junior year of high school. They went out once. Pizza joint or Taco Bell or something fancy like that. He called for a second date after, never heard back. He might've spent the next four months sulking and referring to her as a bitch to her face. So.)

With his conscience pestering him to write back and his bladder urging him to hurry it the fuck up, Dean sends off something quick to Castiel before he can secondguess himself.  
  

> **From: Dean (10:37a.m.)**  
>  _Thanks, dude! And again, you are one brave mofo.. dropping ur digits like some swanky Casanova? That's some 007 stuff right there. Which means ur gonna bag yourself some dude so freaking fast. And no apologies necessary, I did some of that bulldozing myself. Mostly out of self-preservation. God I hate weddings. All that dancing. And the music? SHUDDER. But anyway good morning right back atcha!_

 

Okay, truthfully? He doesn't intend for things to go beyond that. How many times can you tell someone 'cool, okay bye' before it gets awkward? But he's heading out of the bathroom, hands still wet from his post-piss rinsing, when he hears the dulled chimes of a new text coming from his bedroom and his mood glides right back up.  
  

> **From: Castiel (10:41 a.m.)**  
>  _If you say so. I imagine my technique is less 007 and more... what's something nearly incapacitated by nerves but at the last second wills itself to do what it finds most terrifying by power of self-reproach alone? If that's bravery, no wonder so many men are cowards._

 

He's just scrolling to the bottom of that when another text comes in.  
  

> **From: Castiel (10:42 a.m.)**  
>  _Do you mind my asking why, given your feelings toward them, you were at Anna's wedding? I usually avoid the things that cause me to react the way you described._  
>    
>  **From: Dean (10:43 a.m.)**  
>  _Cept asking out dudes? KIDDING.  
>  _  
>  **From: Dean (10:43 a.m.)**  
>  _Went there to wingman my little brother. Turns out I wasn't needed._

 

And because it's shaping up to be a great goddamn morning so far, he sends Castiel the screenshot of Sam's drunken texts. Why the hell not? It makes him laugh rereading it. He's going to print it out and have it framed for the refrigerator, for real.  
  

> **From: Castiel (10:44 a.m.)**  
>  _Jess was one of the bridesmaids, is that correct?_
> 
> **From: Dean (10:44 a.m.)**  
>  _bingo. Sam's been crushing hard for months. Pretty freaking adorable right?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:44 a.m.)**  
>  _Yes, and inspiring to know that some of us are still capable of sealing the deal, so to say._
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:44 a.m.)**  
>  _;)_

 

Awkward.

 

> **From: Dean (10:46 a.m.)**  
>  _So you do that often?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (11:46 a.m.)**  
>  _Physically assault strangers with my phone number, do you mean?_

 

Well. If the guy wants to be blunt about it. Dean types an affirmative with this weird, buoyant feeling in his stomach. Kinda like nervousness, but, you know. Different. Mainly because, if Castiel was a woman, this would definitely be along the lines of flirting. It's a weird thought to have.

All of a sudden, something hits the front door. Dean hears the bodily thud from his bedroom and follows the noise out, abandoning his phone on his bed.

Sam's pushing through the entrance by the time he's made it to the living room area, very much the embodiment of a hangover. He's wearing his clothes from last night, only they're all disheveled and rumpled, so either he got busy last night after all or he went through a wind machine on the way home. He shuts the door very, very quietly, wincing at the barely audible click it makes.

"Hi," Dean chirps, brightly.

"Ughhhh."

"Oh, this is great."

Sam's shoulders hunch up to his ears. He looks like freaking Scrooge as he shuffles past, squinting to minimize the brightness.

"You look awesome," Dean tells him.

Sam glares at him during his collapse onto the couch, but because he's all sweaty and pale-faced from what must be some super fun nausea, it's a sad-looking thing. Wouldn't even get a pity point. "Please no talking," he begs, croaking each syllable out like a dying confession.

Dean snorts, "Pffffft, okay."

Sam is trying to become one with the cushions. It's such a pitiful sight. His legs hang over the arms of the couch because he's a gigantor. "Oh god. My head's going to explode, plus I threw up in a bush."

Ah. Good times. Dean's got himself a memory or two just like that.

"Yeahhhh. Alcohol'll do that to you."

"I lost my shoe," Sam whines. The sock-covered toes of his left foot wiggle in solidarity of this.

Dean huffs out a laugh.

"'S'not funny," Sam slurs.

"Says you. You remember anything from last night? Like, say, mass texting naked Jess pics to your entire contacts list?"

Horrified, Sam sits up fast enough to know that was a pretty dumb move. With a hand covering his eyes to ward off the defensive attack of his stomach, he says, "Oh god, no. Please tell me I didn't--"

"Relax, obviously I'm joking."

"Thank god," Sam exhales. "You freaking asshole."

Yeah. He's hilarious. Dean pushes past to sit down next to him, having first to maneuver the solid mass that is his giant baby brother. Sam glares at the jostling. "So," Dean says once he's comfortable. His eyes flare with lewd pointedness. "She finally make a man out of you?"

Sam attempts the evil eye, but it proves to be too much for him. He winds up letting his head fall back against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut.

"No," he says eventually, with a sigh.

Dean swats his arm sympathetically. Ah, well. There are always other fish in the sea. Net. Whatever.

"We talked," Sam defends.

"Ouch."

"It was nice."

" _Nice,_ " Dean repeats disbelievingly.

"Yes, Dean, nice. Sometimes people connect emotionally and it's just as satisfying as sex. Spoiler. Ugh." Sam sits up again, blinking weirdly, like his eyelids are glued together. "God. Everything hurts right now. My eyes. Ow. My hair."

"Told you to get a haircut."

"Ugh. Ow. Why."

Dean gets up, clapping Sam's shoulder as he slips past.

"Sleep it off, genius."

Big brother mode activated, Dean helps Sam lay back down, untucking a blanket off the back of the couch to cover him up with.

By the time he gets back with a glass of water and a couple of Advil, Sam's snoring lightly and Dean doesn't have the heart to wake him. He leaves it on the coffee table where it'll be found in, oh, twenty minutes when the barfing starts up? Yep.

He books it for his room, feeling nostalgic in a strange way, and amused for obvious reasons. It's been so long since Sam needed to be taken care of like that. It felt almost like old times for a hot second there.

The sight of his phone reminds him he was kinda in the middle of something before Sam got home. Sure enough, he's got a few missed texts. A couple more from Jo that she included Sam in on, which is gonna be so much fun when Paris Hilton out there wakes up, one from Kevin that consists only of party hat emojis, and five from Castiel that very quickly make him feel like an asshole.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:46 a.m.)**  
>  _Hardly ever. Not 007, remember? ;) I suppose in this instance I was acting out of character, but you're very handsome. This must be fairly usual for you._
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:50 a.m.)**  
>  _Was that out of line? I apologize. I was joking. Badly, admittedly._
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:52 a.m.)**  
>  _Gabriel, my brother, says I have the delivery of a dead fish, and that's been sugarcoated for my benefit. I imagine that translates even less over text._
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:55 a.m.)**  
>  _Dean?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:57 a.m.)**  
>  _Message received. Enjoy your day._

 

With some actual, honest-to-god urgency, Dean fires off a response.

 

> **From: Dean (10:59 a.m.)**  
>  _Hey!! Sorry! Sam just got home._
> 
> **From: Dean (10:59 a.m.)**  
>  _Wasn't blowing you off, man. Just had to deal with baby bro's first hangover b4 he passed out._

 

Seeing the responding little dots pop up has relief running through him in ways he doesn't know how to analyze.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:59 a.m.)**  
>  _Is he okay?_
> 
> **From: Dean (11:00 a.m.)**  
>  _About as ok as a guy can get before the worst of it sets in. Which means I should probably go prepare myself for barf duty._
> 
> **From: Castiel (11:01 a.m.)**  
>  _Of course. I hope the hours ahead aren't too scarring for either of you. Thanks again, Dean. And sorry for overreacting. You have no obligations to write back or explain yourself. I hope you know that. Goodbye._

 

So, this is it, then. Dean's been given an out. Here's his chance to end this whole Castiel thing, to chock it up as this one-time event he'll eventually look back on and be like, 'hey, remember the time that gay guy wanted all up on it? good times!'

Yeah, but. He kinda likes the way Castiel talks. And, what, he's not allowed to have a new friend? Maybe he could use a guy like Castiel in his life. He makes him smile and how often nowadays does that happen?

 

> **From: Dean (11:01 a.m.)**  
>  _Quit sayin ur sorry. We're cool. Talk to u later! :)_

 

The emoticon is overkill, but Castiel sends the exact same one back eight seconds later, so fuck it.  


+++  


By the time Dean's making himself dinner, Sam's nearly fully recovered. Probably that Winchester constitution, or else the steel stomach that made him the easiest kid with a stomach flu to look after has extended itself into adulthood and all the poor choices that come with it.

Sam's up and not particularly at 'em, but close enough. He's stopped being a snoring growth on the couch, anyway.

Dean's sauteing some onions when Sam comes in, grabbing himself a bottled water out of the fridge.

"Hungry?" Dean asks him. He's making his world famous peanut butter cheeseburger, which is a goddamn culinary delight. Not that he gets many people to trust him enough to try it. It's Sam's favorite, though, and has been since the kid was old enough to appreciate a decent meal. It's one of Dean's early what's-in-the-pantry creations that passed the taste test and stuck.

Sam looks over with a groan and the saddest glower ever. "Right now, I don't know that I can manage. How do you do this more than once?"

"Hangover from hell?" Dean clarifies. He breaks open the package of ground beef and starts forming it into patty shapes. Sam nods, swallowing at the smell of raw meat. "Guess you get used to it."

Sam moves around him, over to the cupboard they keep the canned stuff in. He doesn't grab anything, just browses for something to do. "Why, though? I mean, the way I felt this morning, I can pretty much guarantee that's a one time thing."

Dean snorts. That's the self-righteous pledge of someone who's yet to discover the fun of bars, women, and the mixing of the two.

Stirring the onions, he makes room to slide two burgers onto the skillet. Right away hot oil starts popping everywhere and Dean has to turn the heat down low, drop a cover on top.

"It's fun," Dean eventually answers him. "The before, anyway." At Sam's unconvinced look, Dean huffs back. "Oh, c'mon, you telling me last night wasn't the best you've felt in a while? 'Cause I got a few texts saying otherwise."

Sam shuts the cupboard more forcefully than he would've had he nothing to be embarrassed about.

Knowing that he nailed it, Dean carries on. "Seriously, get a few beers in you and you type like a tween girl."

"At least I didn't drunk dial you, crying because Dr. Sexy delivered _some_ _baby--_ "

"Hey, hey, _hey,_ it was Dr. O'Malley's baby, in an elevator, and she was the chief of--shut up! It was one time!"

Sam's glower might as well be a smirk at this point. The thing reeks of self-satisfaction.

Anyway.

"I screenshot your texts."

" _Dean._ "

"Sent it to Jo."

"You're such a jerk."

Dean grins. "Everyone else you know? Yeah, them too."

Sam tosses someone's used paper towel at him. It bounces off the back of his head, and Dean laughs.

"Oh, c'mon, it's your first time being a dumbass. Haircut aside. I had to document it somehow."

"Great. Wait. What about Ellen?"

"Already called. I sent her the most adorable pic of you drooling on the couch--"

"Dean!"

"It's my fault you looked like a sweet lil' angel--ow!" Sam punches him in the shoulder, hard. It stings, too, which happens more often these days than Dean cares to admit. Underneath all that brain, Sam's finally developing some brawn.

"Whatever," Sam huffs, "like you haven't done a million worse things."

"I'm adorable," Dean agrees. Sam pretty much rolls his eyes at him, so Dean falls into a pose, holding his neck stiff. "Hey." He drops his voice like twelve full octaves. "I'm Batman."

"Okay," Sam says placatingly, close to another eye roll. Grabbing his water, he makes to leave the kitchen, only Dean darts in front of him, wielding the spatula like a sword.

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Sam chuffs out a laugh, otherwise unimpressed by Dean's spot-on impression. "What's gotten into you today? You're..." He mockingly widens his eyes in alarm, gasping, "happy."

"You shut your face. I'm a friggin' peach always."

"Last night you told me you were going to punch me in the throat for, and I quote, 'having a stupid face.'"

Dean goes back to the burgers, backing away from the steam that lets out when the lid comes off. "You were taking too long to go! And, c'mon. Look at that mug. Look at it," he teases, patting Sam on the cheek, who swipes Dean's hand away with a glare. "Like something went wrong."

"You're such a dick."

Dean points sternly at him with the spatula. "Watch it. That's 'penis' to you."

"Yeah, yeah."  


+++

 

> **From: Castiel (8:18 p.m.)**  
>  _Is it too early to ask for a vomit count?_

 

Dean's biting into his burger just as he gets the text. When he reads it, he snorts, and that makes Sam, who wound up unable resist the pb-cheeseburger, raise his eyebrows in a silent 'what's up?' from across the table.

Dean ignores it, typing out a response.

 

> **From: Dean (8:18 p.m.)**  
>  _Barf free day, believe it or not. Think he absorbed the bad stuff directly into his liver. Not sure that's a good thing. ;)_

 

Sam's staring when he puts his phone down, like Dean's never used the thing before.

"What?"

Sam doesn't say anything, but his gaze, and his chewing, becomes downright suspicious.

Castiel texts again.  


> **From: Castiel (8:18 p.m.)**  
>  _Considering the alternative..._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:19 p.m.)**  
>  _Is that terrible to say?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:19 p.m.)**  
>  _nah man, you're right. Better his liver than my heebs. How bout you.. good day?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:20 p.m.)**  
>  _Yes, thank you. And I wasn't vomited on either, so I think today could be considered an all-around success._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:20 p.m.)**  
>  _hell yes. Now imagine me fist bumping ur phone_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:20 p.m.)**  
>  _Anyway you got a constant threat of barf happening or something?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:21 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm around children often, so, yes._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:21 p.m.)**  
>  _Teacher?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:21 p.m.)**  
>  _also talk about tiny germ factories, am I right? You ever consider the fact one snot-nosed kid is gonna wipe us all out one day? That's how the zombie thing starts_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:22 p.m.)**  
>  _At one time I considered the career, but no, I'm not a teacher. I work at, and co-own, Grounds For Thought. It's a bookstore, coffee shop hybrid, which tends to attract a lot of those, as you called them, snot-nosed kids. I have so many tales of being hit with projectiles, and yes, that includes vomit._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:22 p.m.)**  
>  _so much to take in.. so, you the coffee guy or the book man? And dude, I'm telling you. Zombie apocalypse? Patient zero is some kid w/sticky hands. Calling it._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:23 p.m.)**  
>  _Oh, I have no doubt._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:23 p.m.)**  
>  _Gabriel manages the coffee. I command the books._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:23 p.m.)**  
>  _command huh? They giving you sass?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:23 p.m.)**  
>  _Gabriel's your brother?_

 

"Dude," Sam says. "Seriously?"

Dean drags his attention away from his phone. Sam's definitely gawking.

"You and Lisa make up?"

Dean grumbles out his annoyance. Nosy brat. There's nothing with Lisa to make up, since that implies there's something in need of fixing. They're not broke, they're just. On pause. Semi-permanently. Or whatever.

"Everything's dandy," Dean tells him with a smile to prove it.

"Sure. 'Cause that's a thing you say when you're not lying through your teeth. Who're you texting, then?"

"Jess," Dean snarks.

Castiel's next text comes through. Dean reads it while Sam says, "Okay," like the sarcastic little shit he is. "Tell her 'hi' for me."

 

> **From: Castiel (8:24 p.m.)**  
>  _Very little sass, considering I dom well._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:24 p.m.)**  
>  _That was a joke._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:24 p.m.)**  
>  _And you're correct. Gabriel's my brother. He's eight years older in age, yet so much less in maturity. What about you and Sam?_

 

Speaking of. Sam's leaning across the table to try and read Dean's phone. Dean shields it one-handed and pushes at Sam's forehead with the other until Sam lets up.

"Is it Benny?"

"I say yes, will that shut your piehole?"

Sam bitch-faces at him.

 

> **From: Dean (8:25 p.m.)**  
>  _He's younger by 4 years with the baby teeth to prove it._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:25 p.m.)**  
>  _And that makes you how old? (If it sounds like I'm 'fishing,' I apologize.)_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:25 p.m.)**  
>  _hey. What did we say about apologizing?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:26 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm 26. I know, old right? Bet u thought you were hittin on some spry young guy and instead SURPRISE i'm old as dirt._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:26 p.m.)**  
>  _Considering I'm 31 and also that you're straight, I feel less surprised and more... profoundly embarrassed I believe would be the technical term._

 

It's weird territory again, this blatant mention of Dean being hit on by another guy, but he's the one who brought it up, so he can't really blame the squirm in his stomach on someone else.

"Seriously, is it Jo?"

"Jesus, Sam. Yes. It's Jo. And Benny, and Lisa. Why do you care?"

"Because!"

Good answer.

Sam sputters some more, "You're smiling!"

"So?"

"Are you texting about last night?" Sam demands, scandalized by the thought.

"Okay, _ego._ "

Sensing that he's not going to get any farther with Dean, Sam huffs out the sort of breath he used to regularly exhale as a moody teenager before stomping to the sink with his dirty dishes, which he dumps without rinsing before glaring his way to his bedroom. Yeesh. Drama queen.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:26 p.m.)**  
>  _In all seriousness, age is nothing but a number._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:27 p.m.)**  
>  _Is that coming from you or a fortune cookie?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:27 p.m.)**  
>  _Alright joking aside, you're right. 26 ain't even that old, except people start lookin at you like they expect you to have your shit together. Kinda sucks when you don't_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:27 p.m.)**  
>  _Why do you say that?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:28 p.m.)**  
>  _then again, kinda sucks too when you're actually expected to be a fuck up. life's one big joke that way, least in my experience. Not that I'm Lindsay Lohaning or anything._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:29 p.m.)**  
>  _Cause it's true? I mean, you at 26.. sounds like you had it all figured out. 26 yr old Cas wanted to dom the fuck outta some books. Bam. 5 years later, you got your own freakin store, all the boy and girl books quivering in their leather cuffs. Me, that same age now? Honestly I got no clue._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:30 p.m.)**  
>  _And you see this as a fault?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:30 p.m.)**  
>  _well yeah obviously_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:30 p.m.)**  
>  _I disagree. I got lucky with Gabriel doing most of the leg work while I was young and figuring myself out. Even now, I still question what else I am besides fond of books and similarily into bees._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:31 p.m.)**  
>  _BEES?????_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:31 p.m.)**  
>  _They're incredibly intelligent._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:31 p.m.)**  
>  _like, all bees? Even the ones that sting you?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:31 p.m.)**  
>  _Bees rarely sting unless you appear to be a threat to the colony. And considering you're a giant thousands of times its size, sorry but the miniature insect defending itself has my sympathies._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:32 p.m.)**  
>  _huh. Note to self. Don't piss off Castiel in a room full of bees._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:32 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm not their overlord. But thank you. That would not be pretty._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:33 p.m.)**  
>  _Nice distraction tho. Sorry for the rant._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:33 p.m.)**  
>  _There's nothing to apologize for. You were speaking your mind. And anyway, the ban runs both ways. If I'm not allowed to offer apologies, neither are you._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:34 p.m.)**  
>  _What are you, 12?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:34 p.m.)**  
>  _No. I'm 31._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:36 p.m.)**  
>  _What do you do? I meant to ask earlier, but there were several tangents. Also, ignore this if it's too intrusive. Gabriel also says I have no tact regarding personal boundaries._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:36 p.m.)**  
>  _Yeah, way to miss the boat, skippy. I work with my uncle Bobby fixing cars. Ever needed an oil change? Because chances are I'm the guy who got under your cars skirt._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:37 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm not sure if 'skirt' is a technical term and whether I should be admitting that._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:37 p.m.)**  
>  _hey, lots of people know squat about cars. I kinda make my living banking on that._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:38 p.m.)**  
>  _This is a family business? You mentioned an uncle._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:39 p.m.)**  
>  _Yeah Bobby. Sorta. He's the kinda uncle you inherent with the family dysfunction not the family gene._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:39 p.m.)**  
>  _Long story._

 

Dean pushes his food around his plate while he waits for a response. He should probably feel embarrassed over his meltdown, but turns out, it's a lot easier to dump your mess on someone's front porch if you don't know them.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:41 p.m.)**  
>  _I suppose I should say goodnight. I have an early morning. Too early._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:41 p.m.)**  
>  _me too. Besides, i think my dinner's gone cold. Good thing pb cheeseburgers taste good room temp._
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:41 p.m.)**  
>  _I'd apologize, but I'm not permitted. Dare I ask what pb means?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:41 p.m.)**  
>  _peanut butter_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:41 p.m.)**  
>  _and before you dare ask yes its awesome and yes you should be jealous_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:42 p.m.)**  
>  _:-[_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:42 p.m.)**  
>  _Okay, goodnight, for real._
> 
> **From: Dean (8:42 p.m.)**  
>  _lol. Nite Castiel_

 

"Mmm-hmm," Sam scares the living daylights out of him, smugly looking on from the opposite side of the table, appearing out of nowhere like some teleporting ninja.

"Jesus," Dean swears.

"You're definitely texting someone."

"Really? No shit. Was it my typing that gave it away?"

"A girl, too."

"Yeah, your mom."

Sam thins his lips real prissily -- too far, that one says, but you know what, fuck Sam for not letting it go and for the insinuation that Dean can't casually converse with someone without it being made into a big deal.

"Fine, geez," Sam finally concedes. "You could be less of a jerk about it."

"You could mind your own business," Dean throws back.

Point made, so Sam doesn't contest it. Dean considers that a win and stuffs a bite of burger into his mouth. Definitely cold, but still so damn delicious.  


+++  


"Hey, you never told me how it went with gay Harrison Ford."

"Wait, what?" Lisa says, cutting through Dean's I WILL MURDER YOU stare he's blasting at Charlie. They're at lunch, at some hipster coffee cafe close enough to Bobby's garage, Charlie's office, and Lisa's yoga place that, despite the ambiance and dumb ass clientele, it's become their usual spot. It's the kind of cafe that filters acoustic guitar music through the speakers and dudes who whisper instead of sing. Literally Dean sighs long and sufferingly before entering the building each time.

Charlie has the decency to look shamed, since outing a dude's embarrassing hit-on story? Not cool. But Lisa, more than anything else, looks eager that this will be exactly what it sounds like: some story highlighting Dean's awkwardness.

Awesome.

"This guy, at Sam's party," Dean begins, purposely toneless. If he delivers it like it was no big deal, which it wasn't, but still. If he plays it cool maybe they'll actually move on quickly. "He gave me his number. Whatever. And the dude looks nothing like Harrison Ford, so knock it off."

"Oh my god," Lisa laughs, just a little, covering it up with a cough into her napkin.

"Dean panic-texted me, 'what do I do, what do I do?' So sweet. Don't you wanna pinch his cute little no-homo cheeks?"

Dean glares.

"I mean, depends. Did you actually text or were you a dickhead about it?"

"Hey," Dean defends with some heavily put upon offense. "When am I _ever_ \--"

The serious-eyed stares from both ladies cuts off whatever argument he was going to try and distract with.

Lisa pats his arm. "Nice try, honey."

Dean grumbles. "I texted the guy. Obviously."

"And?" Charlie demands when Dean just leaves that hanging there.

"And, nothing. I told him I already had a ball and chain. He was cool with it."

"Boo. Was he cute at least?"

"Yeah, how hot was he?"

"He was a short, nerdy little dude," Dean blusters unconvincingly. Truthfully, all he really remembers of Castiel is his eyes. They were pretty intense. Then again, that was probably those freaking tea lights.

"Code for, Dean's got the hots for him."

"I will kill you for real," Dean threatens, but it's drowned out by Lisa snorting and Charlie collecting her garbage to go.

"I hate to mock and run, but, government websites to hack, ladies to woo. You know the drill."

"Yeah, what do you do again?" Lisa plays along.

"I.T., bitches." She gives them the Vulcan salute. "Peace."

Once Charlie's gone and it's just him and Lisa, Dean says, "So," looking anywhere but at her, fiddling with the lid of his to-go coffee. Sad thing is, this used to be the best part of lunch, the time he spent in the early part of their relationship really falling hard for her, but these days it's become so routine he kind of resents it a little. It's a drag and an obligation and he hates the feeling that they're spending time together because it's just what they've always done, not because they want to anymore.

Besides, lately with all the fighting and realizing they're at different points in their life, it's awkward as fuck.

"Relax, you look like I'm gonna tear you a new one now that we're alone and the witness has fled. I'm not mad, Dean. Okay, maybe a little -- but god, I'm so tired of being pissed off. Especially at you."

The day of the wedding, the one Sam dragged him to, him and Lisa got into their biggest blowout yet. All because the lease on her apartment is coming up and amid her 'do I renew or do I level up?' conundrum she threw 'moving in together' as an option to consider. Which, even now, sends Dean's pulse racing like he's some commitmentphobe heading for the hills. It's not that. Not just that. There's Sam to consider, too.

"My god," Lisa hisses, leaning in close so she can whisper-shout at him without disturbing the hipster vibe. "Is it really so terrible I might want to move in with my boyfriend after eight months? And, you know, all this freaking out and I never even said, hey, here's my dream choice, let's put a freaking ring on it, all I did was throw it out there as a possibility because I mistook you for an actual adult."

Fed up, Lisa grabs her purse and her jacket.

"I'm so close to done, Dean." She's on her feet, ready to storm out, but something stops her. She winds up just staring at him, her gaze softening. "Do you even care anymore?"

Eight months they've been together. Eight months, and he hasn't even told her 'I love you' yet but all of a sudden she wants to play house together? It's not that he doesn't feel _something_ for her, it's just, most days, he doesn't think that cuts it.

"Lis," he tries, without knowing what else to say.

It's not the right thing, in any way.

"Unbelievable. Grow up, Dean."  


+++

 

> **From: Castiel (4:33 p.m.)**  
>  _Hello, Dean._
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:33 p.m.)**  
>  _What are your feelings on bunnies?_

 

The fuck?

Dean's in bed, trying to nap away his feelings. On his mind when he came home to his darkened room (fuck you, winter) and nested inside a mountain of covers was getting away from literally the entire world, but how do you ignore a text like that?

 

> **From: Dean (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _???????_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _Gabriel thinks having an animal at the shop will generate business_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _Bcuz..????_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _If I had to guess, he's hoping to prosper from their therapeutic benefits. Animals are very cathartic._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _Of course._
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _It's not his worst idea. Not for the bookshop. Personally I'd like a cat, but unfortunately, they're too much of an allergy risk._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:35 p.m.)**  
>  _Plus claws. Cats can be real bitches._
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:35 p.m.)**  
>  _If provoked._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:35 p.m.)**  
>  _oh geez, is this another one of ur things? Bees n cats, man. DON'T HATE OR CAS WILL SIC THEM ON YOU_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:35 p.m.)**  
>  _Anyway why bunnies?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:36 p.m.)**  
>  _Well, they're fluffy._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _Is that your legit answer?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _That's important._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _Yeah, no sure.._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _What else?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _You're patronizing me, aren't you?_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _Look honestly my day was crud and ur kinda taking my mind off it. So no. Not patronizing._
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:39 p.m.)**  
>  _Would you like to talk about it?_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:39 p.m.)**  
>  _I'd kinda like to talk more about these bunnies of urs_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:39 p.m.)**  
>  _I don't currently have one. But I'd like to._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Hey what about a lizard?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _:|_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Cmon how cool would that be?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _No._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Lol_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Maybe a guinea pig, though._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Rodents man? Bet that thing would come with all sorts of diseases._
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:42 p.m.)**  
>  _I think you're thinking of rats._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:42 p.m.)**  
>  _Rats....gerbils..hamsters mice. All the same_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:42 p.m.)**  
>  _Okay, but let's go back to bunnies._
> 
> **From: Dean: (4:43 p.m.)**  
>  _fine but tthem things bite_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:43 p.m.)  
>  ** _Bunnies do not bite._
> 
> ****From: Dean: (4:43 p.m.)  
>  **** _it's ur nibbled on funeral man_

 

+++  


"This? Is a nightmare," Dean complains to both his brother and the generic-looking lady's sweater he's holding up. How do you shop for that special someone in your life who's on the verge of breaking up with you? What's the best Christmas gift to say, ' _hey, I get it. good job getting away, I am one piece of work_.'

"Seriously," he continues, lowering his voice so the saleswoman in the next aisle over will quit staring. That doesn't stop him from miming a gun to his temple. "Kill me now."

Sam, meanwhile, is rifling through sweaters and shirts alike like he couldn't be more content, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be on a Tuesday, at lunch, than the goddamn mall in a store that smells like vanilla.

Dean's sinuses are getting all jacked up.

"You're so dramatic," Sam says, pitching his tone up into that higher, holier-than-thou register that basically implies Dean's a neanderthal.

"It's boring as hell, and -- hey." He makes Sam meet his eyes. "My men are shriveling," he hisses pointedly.

Sam has no sympathy for it. "Yeah, yeah. You're a macho, macho man. We all get it, Dean." He sighs and stops scanning a rack of cardigans for a second. Long enough to visualize granola, probably. "Why don't you go and get a cookie? Hmm?"

"Why don't you go and get a cookie," Dean mimics right back, scowling at the suggestion and Sam's smug 'Dean's a toddler' look he pitches at him during Dean's mocking.

"Point proven. I'm serious, though. I'll meet you in the food court in... mm, twenty minutes cool with you?"

If it were up to Dean, they'd be at Target right now picking out giftcards. End of. So, no, another 20 minutes in hell isn't cool with him, but Sam's serious about buying Jess a real gift for the holidays, and aside from his ninth grade crush on a girl he spent all of Dean's extra cash buying a Dave Matthews Band CD for, it's his first time shopping for someone he has feelings for.

So Dean stifles as much of his annoyance as he's able and agrees to the plan, but not without imparting a little older brother wisdom in the form of draping a shimmery, barely there pair of panties over Sam's head on his way out.

Sam glares at him through the curtain of fabric, and Dean heads off feeling much happier with the world.

Yeah. That lasts three whole minutes. As soon as he makes it out of the store, he remembers why he hates the mall: teenagers. They're everywhere. In groups, by themselves. On phones. He nearly runs into a pair of preteens with their arms linked when they stop suddenly and giggle at a poster in a store window for some boy band called One Direction.

Dean hurries around them, scowling -- at them and everything else. He can't escape the smell of vanilla, not to mention, holy soccer moms. This mall some kind of breeding ground of bad? By the time he makes it to the food court he wants nothing to do with the long lines of yet more prepubescent girls, so he hunkers down in a booth the way many men before him have barricaded themselves in trenches, and waits it out.

Five minutes later he's bored out of his mind and annoyed with humanity anew, so he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his most recent texts.

To Jo, he sends:

 

> **From: Dean (1:11 p.m.)**  
>  _Yo jo, whassup?_

 

To Benny:

 

> **From: Dean (1:11 p.m.)**  
>  _hey you closing 2nght?_

 

To Charlie:

 

> **From: Dean (1:12 p.m.)**  
>  _Help me obi-wan. At mall with Sam. Ur my only hope_

 

A few minutes later, Charlie writes back.

 

> **From: Charlie (1:15 p.m.)**  
>  _Sorry, mandatory meeting on malware. Bo-ring! Trade ya?_

 

Fuck no. Jo and Benny remain silent, and while Dean spends another few minutes entertaining himself by sending gifs to Charlie, she doesn't respond either, and his attention span only lasts so long.

Oh, what the hell. He texts Castiel.

 

>   
>  **From: Dean (1:19 p.m.)**  
>  _Currently atoning for all of my life's sins. It was nice knowing u._

 

Right away, Castiel texts back.

 

> **From: Castiel (1:19 p.m.)**  
>  _Is that a reference?_
> 
> __**From: Dean (1:19 p.m.)**  
>  _No I'm serious.___

 

Dean takes a selfie with the crowded food court in the background, making sure to look as grumpy and curmudgeonly as possible, and sends it to Castiel before he can talk himself out of it.

 

> **From: Castiel (1:21 p.m.)**  
>  _You weren't joking. You have my sympathies._

> **From: Dean (1:21 p.m.)**  
>  _Thanks. I knew i could count on you._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:22 p.m.)**  
>  _Why are you subjecting yourself to this hell on earth?_
> 
> **From: Dean (1:22 p.m.)**  
>  _Sam's picking out a xmas present for Jess. I'm the wheels. Whee. (SARCASM)_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:23 p.m.)**  
>  _At least you can use the time to do your own shopping?_

 

Yeah, at this point, anything he gets for Lisa is going to be considered a breakup gift, and he already picked out Sam's present ages ago.

 

> **From: Dean (1:23 p.m.)**  
>  _nah i'm as good as done when it comes to that. Nothing here for me but torture, for real_

> **From: Dean (1:24 p.m.)**  
>  _What about you? All bought up for xmas?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:24 p.m.)**  
>  _Considering it's still more than 2 weeks away, no. I usually procrastinate until the very last minute._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:24 p.m.)**  
>  _and how does that usually go for you?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:24 p.m.)**  
>  _Let's just say, more than once I've arrived back home with airport purchases._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:24 p.m.)**  
>  _yikes_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:25 p.m.)**  
>  _I'll admit, my family wasn't particularly overwhelmed by my gift-giving those years. Minus Gabriel, of course. His once was a pair of socks with a cupcake pattern._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:26 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm surprised you didn't go for something with bees_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:26 p.m.)**  
>  _I did. For myself ;)_

 

Dean laughs, and then realizes that was out loud. After a quick scan, he's glad to see no one noticed, but still. He's borderline 12-year-old-girl here, giggling over the cute boy he's texting.

 

> **From: Castiel (1:27 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm sure you've been anxiously awaiting the news, so I'll spare you any further torment. I am now the proud parent of Tolkien._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:27 p.m.)**  
>  _Tolk for short._

 

It's weird to have a reaction to that, right? Yet, stupidly, Dean does. He feels kind of proud? It's weird.

 

> **From: Dean (1:28 p.m.)**  
>  _You giant nerd :P congrats_
> 
> **From: Dean (1:28 p.m.)**  
>  _I don't usually do cute, but no denying, its friggin adorable._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:29 p.m.)**  
>  _She, and thank you. I have her at home with me in an attempt to familiarize her with myself. So far, she accepts that I provide food and shelter, but otherwise I am regarded warily._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:29 p.m.)**  
>  _lol I'm sure she'll warm up. You sure you're not giving off I'D RATHER HAVE BEES vibes bcuz rabbits man.. they pick up on that._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:29 p.m.)**  
>  _I'll ask her. Hold on._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:29 p.m.)**  
>  _She says no, and also, you're not funny._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:30 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm hilarious_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:30 p.m.)**  
>  _Hm, I don't know. I only just met her, but she did let me buy her dinner. My allegiance is easily garnered but not so easily swayed._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:30 p.m.)**  
>  _cold, man, cold._
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:31 p.m.)**  
>  _Not to beat a dead cow, but, you had your shot. ;)_

 

Dean snorts and, swear to god, flushes at the same time, the tips of his ears going Rudolph red. Cas drops that sort of thing so casually, like it isn't awkward for him at all, which reinforces the balls-of-steel thing, but it also confuses all the little men inside Dean's brain that have marched on a straight, forward path his entire life. They scatter for a few seconds before regrouping and falling back in line.

"Dean," Sam calls, waving as he makes his way to him with a big plastic bag in hand.

Dean silently thanks the universe for the distraction and bails out, quick.

 

> **From: Dean (1:33 p.m.)**  
>  _it's horse, you dork. And Sam finally showed up so thank fucking god, I'm busting out. Talk to u later_

 

He gets to his feet, sliding his phone in his pocket. Now that he knows freedom is nigh, his mood climbs right back up. He meets Sam halfway.

"You don't wanna--" Sam starts, glancing behind him like there's more mall to be had, but fuck that so hard.

"Hell no." He wraps his arm around his giant of a brother's shoulder and guides them toward an exit. "Any longer in here, I swear. Full on Ted Bundy-ing."

"Mass murderer," Sam says distastefully. "Real classy."

Dean grins.  


+++  


"Hey, so, I invited Jess over," Sam brings up while they're in the car, the mall many'a mile behind them.

Dean turns down the radio, and Sam sighs with his entire body because he must know there's no way Dean's not going to make a big deal out of this.

"Well, well," Dean starts, leering already.

"You're honestly the biggest creep," Sam accuses into the window, which he's staring out of like he expects Dean will respect his introspection and drop it.

Seriously, is he new?

"You need me to clear out? Say the word, I'm gone. What do you need, like, what. Ten, fifteen minutes top?"

Sam swings his glare around. Dean barks out a laugh.

"I'm just saying." He glances down meaningfully, to Sam's crotch. "Your first time, you might not last as long as little Sam--"

Sam punches him in the right boob, hard enough to rattle the breath out of him and make the car swerve. Once he gets the Impala righted, to the sound of someone honking behind them, he stares at Sam, betrayed.

"She's coming over to bake some cookies," Sam says. "Okay? Don't be gross."

"Cookies," Dean repeats. "Right. And _ow,_ you giant son-of-a-bitch. That actually hurt." He massages his chest, gritting his teeth at the cramping pain.

Sam sounds completely smug when he says, "I know. Jerk."  


+++  


Once Sam's special guest arrives, Dean stays in the apartment long enough to embarrass him, but he catches on quick that Sam really, really, really wants him gone, more even than he really, really wants to be alone with Jess.

That's just offensive.

"Alright, you two," Dean says, exiting in an overly exaggerated way. He gets his coat and stuffs his arms into the sleeves one at a time as slow as possible. Jingles his keys obnoxiously. Clears his throat. Sam's eyeballing him with such an intense 'I will light you on fire' look, but Jess is nothing but patient, seeing right through him. "I'll be back later."

"Bye, Dean. Have fun."

Sam says, through his teeth and the most crazed-looking smile, "See ya."

What an honest-to-god freak. Dean couldn't love the little weirdo more.

"I'll text you later," he stalls, half out the door.

"Okay," Sam says, when what he means is GET THE FUCK OUT.

"Bye," Jess chirps again.

Dean ducks out with a grin -- and then sticks his head right back in, saying, "But for real, things get hot n'heavy? Put a sock on the--"

Sam chucks a gingerbread-shaped cookie-cutter at his face.  


+++  


Considering Dean's social circle is down to nada these days, Dean spends a solid few minutes warming the Impala up wondering where the hell he's going to go.

Everyone he knows is at work, and it's only because he's been breaking his neck for the past month to make sure all the bills get taken care of that Bobby gave him some time off. Still, he might just go in, give the old guy hell for a few hours.

Or. Dean swipes at his phone, his most recent texts right there on the screen.

You know, actually, he could go for some coffee. Maybe browse some books. Good thing he knows a place he can do both.  


+++  


Dean's been in Grounds For Thought a handful of times, mostly to grab coffee for Sam when he was up to his bangs in homework and the gas station stuff wasn't cutting it.

He can't say anything about it ever stood out, outside of the fact that inside it's like someone with attention span problems designed the layout. It's less like a Starbucks and more like a thrift store, the open room leading right into a pretty sizable bookshop that Dean keeps peeking into while waiting in line.

Business sure ain't booming, but it's steady enough that a lot of the tables are taken. People seem to be heading in and out of the bookshop regularly. No sign of floppy bunny ears, or Castiel, in sight, though.

"Hey, hot stuff, what can I get ya?"

Dean frowns at the overly cheerful whatever that was, glancing down automatically for a name tag. Gabriel. Ahh. Okay. The brother. When he looks up again, Gabriel bounces his eyebrows at him.

Dean clears his throat and distracts himself by scanning the menu on the wall. It's handwritten and done in chalk, half of the things are scribbled over with some new coffee or tea to take the place of the retired one. "Uh, latte. Please. Small."

"You want that extra foamy?"

That's a thing? "Sure," he answers.

Gabriel gives him another look, longer this time, but just as mirthful. "Alright. That'll be $3.24. You got a name?"

Dean balks -- is this a family of forward ass dudes who got no problem going after what they want, holy crap -- before he remembers, duh. Coffee shop. They get your name for the --

Awkwardly, Dean hands over a $5 bill. "Dean. Keep the change," he says through a tight smile, moving over to the pick-up side of the counter. Gabriel straight up smirks, dropping the leftover money into the tip jar with enough exaggerated flourish that the next customer in line starts laughing.

Great.

Somehow Dean manages to not be swallowed up by the earth, using the time while his latte's being brewed to creep further towards the bookstore. He can't say he's ever spent much time in any, really, but it looks similar to what he would've guessed.

It's clean, with lots of wooden shelves full of books lining the walls and filling up space. Register down near the back, with a short, black-haired woman working it. Some heavily cushioned chairs are stationed at various points for people to hang out and read if they want, all bright colors like lime green and orange and purple. There's a table up near the entrance with a display for newer, popular books, and beside those an assorted stack in front of a handmade sign that says 'Castiel's picks.'

Dean doesn't realize he's pretty much in the bookstore itself until Gabriel pops up behind him, scaring the holy jesus out of him.

"Looking for something?" Gabriel asks. Even though he phrases it like an employee aiding a wayward customer, there's something in his voice that Dean swears sounds like he _knows_ Dean's here for more than just a taste of coffee. Not that he wants a _taste_ of anything else, because. He doesn't. Obviously.

"I'm good," he gives back smoothly. "Thanks, though."

"Sweet, 'cause order's up."

Dean catches the directional gesturing of Gabriel's nod and heads back that way. His latte's on the counter, so he swipes it and moves further down, opting to sit at whatever the coffee shop equivalent of a bar is than find a table or, god help him, couch.

That's when he notices the foam art.

He glances at Gabriel, who's already staring back intently. When their eyes meet, Dean gets a mocking salute, followed by a wink before Gabriel busies himself with the next few customers. Jesus.

Taking out his phone, Dean snaps a picture and sends it to Castiel, mindful of the people around him. He probably looks like one of those douchebags instagramming their food.

 

> **From: Dean (4:34 p.m.)**  
>  _Think ur bros tryin to send me a message?_
> 
>  

He doesn't pocket his phone after. Instead he keeps it out on the counter, catching a missed text from Benny.

 

> **From: Benny (3:29 p.m.)**  
>  _Yeah brother, i'm here all nite. You coming by?_

 

He wasn't planning on it, but, hell. Let's be real. Sam is going to take a full evening to work his moves on Jess. There's no way Dean's being let back into his apartment any earlier than lots of hours from now. Sam has to court and woo first. That might actually take forever.

Someone's ringtone goes off nearby -- the theme song for 'Greatest American Hero,' and Dean snorts his judgment before realizing it's Gabriel's phone polluting the place. That just figures.

Meanwhile, he texts Benny back.

 

> **From: Dean (4:36 p.m.)**  
>  _why the hell not. I'll see you later_

 

Cas responds right after, before Dean's phone has time to black out.

 

> **From: Castiel (4:36 p.m.)**  
>  _You should probably ignore him. He's basically a savage, we've lost all hope for him to ever reform._

 

Dean's smiling when he takes his first sip, foam-penis be damned.

 

> **From: Dean (4:36 p.m.)**  
>  _5 seconds with the dude and i get it, man_

 

He wonders if Gabriel's gay, too, or if the foam art was meant to be mocking. It wouldn't be the first time Dean got shit for being butch.

 

> **From: Castiel (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _I'm happy you understand. So, am I right in assuming you're at the coffee shop?_
> 
> **From: Dean (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _Bingo. I got sexiled by Sam. Nice digs btw. You're not here, are you?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _Unfortunately Tolk is still requesting my presence. We're making progress, she and I._
> 
> **From: Dean (4:37 p.m.)**  
>  _yeah I figured that lady at the register wasn't you ;)_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _Meg? We look very similar, but no, I'm not a woman._

 

Yeah, Dean remembers.

"So, crazy thing," Gabriel says out of nowhere, and it's to him, which catches Dean in surprise. "I sexually harass via spot-on foam dick art the very same dude my baby bro texts me not two seconds afterward to say he's already claimed dibs on."

Dean's brain is trudging through mud right now. What comes out first is, "I'm not--"

"I know, believe me, Cas has sobbed that story. Queer guy falls for straight white bread. Classic. Oh, don't give me that look," he says in response to the ruffled feathers vibe Dean knows he's giving off. "Cas has mentioned you, oh, five, ten _thousand_ times. In, I should point out, a purely friendzoned context, but please, between the lines? It reads like a bona fide '50 Shades of Safe-Wording' novel."

"Um."

"Ahh. Elegantly witty. I see the appeal."

A 'hey, fuck you' is right there on the tip of his tongue, but Gabriel pulls his hands up in faux defense. "I'm kidding, obviously. Name's Gabriel. You're Dean. Let's pretend I didn't pull the foam penis card. Enjoy your latte, come back again. Break my brother's heart, I'll gut you like Bambi. Good talk, bye-bye."

Dean's mind is pretty much trying to ctrl-alt-delete itself, to no avail, as Gabriel slips off as easily as he came. Distractedly, Dean realizes he's missed some texts.

 

> **From: Castiel (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _Will you be around much longer?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _I thought I might come in for a while, mostly to rein in Gabriel, but if you're there, maybe we could talk face-to-face?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (4:38 p.m.)**  
>  _:)_

 

It's been a few minutes since that last one, which makes it seem like Dean's left Castiel hanging on purpose. Nearby that 'Greatest American Hero' ringtone goes off again, and now that he knows who it is, his fight-or-flight instincts materialize like someone summoned them.  


+++  


It's barely even five when Dean shows up at the Roadhouse, which means the only people around are the locals and alcoholics.

"Hey, brother. You're early," Benny greets him. He grabs Dean's usual from the fridge below the counter before Dean's ass has even touched the stool. That's service, people.

"Thanks," he accepts it, popping off the twist cap. He downs several mouthfuls in one long go, feeling the tension loosen inside of him almost immediately like some sort of Pavlovian response to alcohol. "God, I needed that."

"Uh, yeah," Benny agrees, chuckling lightly. It's the kind of laugh that starts out in his gut and is barely even a noise by the time it makes it out. "Rough day?"

Dean tips the beer back until the rim is resting on his bottom lip. "You askin' or diagnosing, doc?" he jokes before taking a sip.

"Little of both, I suppose. That a problem?"

Him and Benny have known each other long enough that they tend to converse in disgruntled grunts and incomplete sentences. Benny's been bartending for Ellen since before Dean was old enough to drink. Their friendship just sort of happened naturally with little effort on either of their parts. (And, okay, eighteen-year-old Dean might've had a crush on him. But that definitely went away a long time ago, and at the time, he considered it more hero worship than anything. Benny was cool, especially back then. Dude had a Louisianian accent Kansas has since pretty much squashed right out of him.)

"Nah, just. Like you said. Rough day."

"Which means, you don't wanna talk about it."

Dean raises his beer at him, a silent _damn straight, thanks for that._ This is what he's talking about. It's like he knows Dean's 'feelings are to be repressed, not spoken out loud' rule.

Ellen strides in from one of the back storage rooms, wiping her hands on a towel. She's already giving Dean that no-nonsense glare he grew up on and all he's done so far is make eye contact. "What's Dean not wanting to talk about now?" she says.

"Your one-of-a-kind burgers. Think the grill's hot enough?"

"Do I look stupid to you?" Ellen demands, staring him down, daring him to answer that any way but right. Benny whistles lowly and moves up the bar, leaving Dean to fend for himself. Smart man.

"No, ma'am," Dean responds automatically.

"You're damn right. So, what is it? You boys doin' okay?"

"Mom, leave him alone, it's probably a Lisa thing," Jo feels the need to stick her nose in. "Hey, Dean. No Sam?"

Ignoring the part that makes him want to retreat fast, he says, "Sam's got company." And then widens his eyes pointedly. "Jess."

As far as subject changes go, Sam's love life is a damn good one. Even Ellen forgets to badger him in light of Sam having a real, live girl in his life.

"It's about time," Jo says with a laugh. "I swear, the way you are, and the way he is, it's like night and day."

"Aw, Jo. Just because I turned you down--"

"You are so full of it. I was fourteen. You were cool, once," she adds teasingly.

"And here I always thought you had a thing for Sam all these years," Ellen says without the gravitas that sort of dropped bomb deserves. Jo goes pale white and Dean's troubles poof into nothingness.

"Well, well," he gloats.

"Mom," Jo whines. "C'mon. God."

"This is awesome."

"Dean, you keep your big mouth closed, " Ellen warns him, "and you," she tells Jo, "get over yourself."

Benny snorts down at the other end of the bar, where he's pretending to be wiping off the counter.

"I don't have a 'thing' for Sam," Jo insists tightly. "He's like a brother to me. You know how gross that would be?"

"Hey, different strokes for different folks. I know a few websites you can filter that sorta thing--"

"MOM," Jo shouts over him. Ellen's shaking her head and retreating back into the other room, wanting nothing to do with them now that the bickering's started. "You know," Jo says once she's gone, a little bit of mischief to it, "it doesn't surprise me you got all them incest sites bookmarked, how close you and Sam are--"

"I will straight up hit you. Swear to god."

"Hey, now," Benny interrupts, feeling safe to do so now that Ellen's no longer around, "let's not threaten the women around here, alright."

Dean ignores Jo's smug look, which is a Herculean effort considering she gets right in his face with it. "Agreed. Good thing Jo's more man than--"

Jo socks him in the shoulder. The bruised one, too, which is the only reason he winces in pain.

"Told ya," Benny says.

Jo stares him down. "Say anything to Sam," she warns, and Dean's palms flip right up in surrender.

"Alright, you freak. Geez."

"You still want that burger?"

"Duh."

Jo rolls her eyes but gets to it all the same, leaving Dean alone with Benny.

"You believe that?" he says, meaning his arm, mostly, which he's trying to rub the pain out of.

Benny huffs out dryly. "You're just bugged she thinks Sam's prettier than you."

"Please," Dean retorts.

Benny stares back unconvinced.

"He's got dumb hair," Dean argues. "And he's eight feet tall."

"Mmm-hm."

"Oh, shut up."

"M-hm."  


+++  


Later -- much later -- when Dean is too drunk to care, he sends Cas a message.

 

> **From: Dean (1:34 a.m.)**  
>  _Sorry bout bailing earlier. @ roadhouse if u wanna join now?_

 

Clearly that's drunk-Dean's brain taking the wheel. Obviously Castiel, at ass o'clock in the morning, isn't going to hop in his car for some late night drinking. Obviously Dean would probably flip out just the same if he was. Sober Dean, anyway. Drunk Dean thinks the more the merrier.

His phone going off is a genuine surprise.

 

> **From: Castiel (1:34 a.m.)**  
>  _Maybe another time._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:35 a.m.)**  
>  _cool_

 

Cas doesn't respond for a full five minutes. Maybe he went to bed. Or maybe he's pissed at Dean for flaking on him earlier only he's too nice to say so. Leaving like Dean did without so much as a 'fare thee well, fucker' to Gabriel was a dick move, mostly because his inability to adult left Cas hanging all night.

Guilt leaks in fast, like something broke inside of him somewhere.

 

> **From: Dean (1:41 a.m.)**  
>  _u mad at me?_
> 
> **From: Dean (1:41 a.m.)**  
>  _I've received texts this late before._
> 
> **From: Dean (1:41 a.m.)**  
>  _ha ha but for real_
> 
> **From: Castiel (1:41 a.m.)**  
>  _I'm not angry._

 

That's the sort of thing angry people say when they're angry.

"That Lisa?" Benny asks suddenly in front of him, reminding Dean, oh yeah, he's not alone.

"No," Dean grunts, pocketing his phone.

"You've got that hang-dog look, like you did something wrong she's making you grovel for. You done for the night?"

It's like Benny doesn't even know him.

"Hell no," he says. "Beer me, beer man."  


+++  


When he wakes the next morning, feeling every inch of hungover, there are a bunch of texts from Charlie that basically amount to 'you're the cutest drunk ever, why wasn't I invited?' and one from Lisa that makes dread curl in his stomach like a living thing, with knives.

 

> **From: Lisa (7:55 a.m.)**  
>  _Thanks for the voicemails._

 

What the hell does that even mean? He checks his outgoing phone calls. There's one to Lisa that she must've picked up and then, later, three more she didn't.

He can deal with this.

Sam bangs on his door first.

"Hey, you alive in there?"

"What do you want?"

"'Good morning, Sam, it's so nice to hear you'--"

"Yeah, yeah. What?"

"I'm going out. You need anything?"

"Pie!"

"Dean. I meant, like. Orange juice. Water."

"PIE."

Sam mumbles something under his breath. Granola chants, he bets. _You're the granola. Be the granola_. "I'll be back later."

"Hey, wear a condom--"

"Shut upppppp," Sam disappears down the hall with.

Dean's still laughing to himself when the front door opens and closes, but it tapers off into a feeling of loneliness pretty quickly after. He remembers last night up until the point that Benny had to pry the karaoke mic out of his hands while threatening to unplug the machine. After, it's a whole lot of nothing.

His head hasn't been in the greatest place lately, so who knows what the hell he said to Lisa. The god's honest truth, maybe. A lie that he wants to move in with her. He doesn't know which one terrifies him worse, how fucked up is that?

Dean flops back onto his mattress and drags a hand over his eyes until the world blacks out. He can feel the nausea creep up his throat, drying out his mouth, stomach acid clinging on sourly.

And then he gets a new text.

 

> **From: Castiel: (10:17 a.m.)**  
>  _I thought I'd check to make sure you were alive._

 

Dean's stomach flops around for a whole new reason. He remembers texting Cas. He also remembers going to Grounds For Thought, meeting Gabriel, and the radio silence he put Cas through just for wanting to hang out.

Again, his insides revolt, but it's guilt once more.

 

> **From: Castiel: (10:18 a.m.)**  
>  _If so, I hope you're drinking enough water._

 

Why does he have to be so nice? Why can't he just call Dean out on his dick behavior?

He starts to type something and stops, knowing that, if Cas is staring at his phone, he'll know Dean's chickening out. That's fine. He's not in the mood for whatever's going to happen here. There are needles driving into his skull right now and every exhale he's that much closer to vomiting.

 

> **From Castiel: (10:20 a.m.)**  
>  _I was up last night when you texted. Tolk was very active despite my need for sleep._

 

That at least nukes some of Dean's guilt. So he didn't wake Cas in his drunken harassment. Kudos to Dean, what a standup guy.

 

> **From Castiel: (10:20 a.m.)**  
>  _If you're wondering, you were right. Rabbits do bite._

 

Dean snorts. Fucking Cas.

He texts back.

 

> **From: Dean (10:21 a.m.)**  
>  _told ya so would be in poor taste right?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:21 a.m.)**  
>  _:)_

 

+++  


Several hours later, Dean's phone chimes from a new text message.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:47 p.m.)**  
>  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=APoCpZOrI4w

 

He squints at it for a solid fifteen seconds before brushing it off as spam. Or, like, a sent message from the recently hacked. Probably Cas, saint that he is, got duped by one of them Prince of Algeria 'send me your bank account number and personal information' emails, and now look what's happened.

Then he gets another text.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:48 p.m.)**  
>  _:) :) :) :)_

 

So, one, not hacked, and two, that's a sigh of complaint on Dean's end because now he's obligated to click the link. He types back quick.

 

> **From: Dean (8:48 p.m.)**  
>  _later i'm busy k?_

 

The dots go wild as Cas responds.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:48 p.m.)**  
>  _Doing what?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:49 p.m.)**  
>  _stuff_

 

Good enough. You can't call a person out on that, it could mean literally anything. 'I'm taking a shit.' 'Now's really not a good time, there's someone else's hand on my dick.' 'Leave me alone, this is a fight.' Literally anything, right, except Dean's phone goes off again just a few seconds later.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:49 p.m.)**  
>  _Are you still hungover?_

 

He considers lying, but, fuck it.

 

> **From: Dean (8:49 pm)**  
>  dude i'm netflixing

 

Sam had judged him earlier, when Dean left his room to grab a bite to eat. He didn't say anything though, too gripped by the phone call he was on (ten to one it was Jess, and woo boy about that) but as Dean passed by him to the fridge he was given the _ugh, when's the last time you bathed_ look. Which was nuts, Dean was rosy fresh, if wiping himself down with a fabric softener sheet counts.

Now, hours later, the sandwich he made is nearing the end of its digestive track tour and he's worked his way on to beer number three, his hangover nothing but a mere memory. Life is good.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:50 p.m.)**  
>  _What are you watching?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:50 p.m.)**  
>  _Walking Dead. U seen it?_

 

He hadn't paused it when the first text came in, so he's missed a scene or two here typing, but on his laptop, perched as its name suggests right on his lap (and probably nuking his little guys, but, hey, not like he'll ever have kids anyway) some shit is about to go down. He's only on the third season but Charlie's been known to bust out a spoiler whenever she hasn't been paid enough attention to.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:50 p.m.)**  
>  _That's the show about zombies?_

> **From: Dean (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _hell yeah it is_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _Is it any good?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _yes!!!_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _you'd man crush Rick Grimes btw 100%_
> 
> **From: Castiel (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _Why do you think that?_
> 
> **From: Dean (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _he's a stud and i know u like them studs ;9_

 

Dean squints at his phone. He meant to send a winky-faced emoticon, not whatever that is. It looks like it's licking suggestively, for the love of fuck. Abort, abort.

 

> **From: Dean (8:51 p.m.)**  
>  _anyway gotta go_

> **From: Castiel (8:52 p.m.)**  
>  _Maybe I'll put the show on for myself. See what this stud is all about. Does he happen to have green eyes as well?_

 

Jesus christ.

 

> **From: Castiel (8:52 p.m.)**  
>  _Good night, Dean. Pleasant dreams. ;9_

 

Jesus christ.  


+++  


"Oh, look, he emerges."

"Fuck you."

Sam gives him a really strong 'you're the worst' face, but by now, twenty-two years into this brother thing, he's grown used to Dean's frankly charming comebacks. He schools his expression right away.

"You wash your hand?"

That's what passes for Sam as strong innuendo. The accusation there is that Dean's been having some sorta monster masturbation sesh.

"Hey." Dean points at him, smirking winningly. "Fuck you."

Sam stomps around a little, just so Dean knows he isn't happy with him. The fridge door closes a little harder than it needs to be closed, the organic Goddess salad dressing Sam ruins his food with gets shaken semi-vigorously, Sam sighs pointedly. It's all very dramatic.

Meanwhile, Dean grabs a beer and calls it a night.

"Seriously?" Sam demands after Dean's left the kitchen without comment.

"Yup," Dean answers and doesn't bother stopping.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Might be my period." He finally swings his head around, giving Sam another grin. "Nope, that's you."

"Dean--"

Dean shuts his bedroom door on whatever 'I care about you, let's share our feelings' talk Sam was hoping to sit down, hold hands, and dredge up.

As Sam finishes up in the kitchen and settles into the living room with the TV on, Dean drops back onto his bed and tries to ignore the crap feeling that's set up permanent camp inside him. Being a dick to Sam is, let's be honest here, a hobby as well as a pastime at this point, it's something he does for fun just to see how quickly he can genuinely piss him off. Good times. But that back there was Dean being an asshole for no damn good reason.

The thing with Lisa is eating at him. That's one thing. He never delved any deeper to figure out what his drunken phone calls might've been about, and that's got him feeling like he's walking on uneven ground. Like any second they're gonna give each other the 'it's not me, it's you' speech, and he wouldn't be so scared of that happening if he wasn't feeling so sick of himself lately. He's not a great person. He doesn't need that validated right now.

And Sam out there is the perfect poster boy of content with his long hair and his whole grain food and whatever's happening with Jess. He's got everything going for him. Not to mention, Dean's spotted Craigslist open on Sam's laptop a few times now, and it's always the apartment hunting page that's pulled up. That might be fucking with him most of all because, hey, here's something messed up, Dean likes living with his brother. Kind of can't live without him, actually.

Dean's startled out of his brooding by a text.

 

> **From: Castiel (10: 40 p.m.)**  
>  _You're right. Rick Grimes is a stud. But I've seen studlier. ;)_

 

It might just be because his headspace isn't in the best place right now, but Cas is like a goddamn godsend.

Dean gets himself more comfortable, ditching the beer on his night stand in favor of two-handed typing.

 

> **From: Dean (10:40 p.m.)**  
>  _oh yeah? Daryl more ur thing?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:40 p.m.)**  
>  _I believe my 'thing' has been well-established between us._

 

Dean's heart beats a little too fast for him to pass his reaction off as no big deal.

This is the point where, with a girl, Dean would take things further. 'Oh, yeah, your thing look like this?' followed by a borderline softcore porn selfie. 'Hey, baby, what are you wearing?' Something like that to push it to the next level.

He's tempted to take it there now. That's probably his midlife crisis talking, but, swear to god, Cas wanted to go there? He'd legitimately consider it himself. Hell, he's half-hard just thinking about it and all Cas has done is implied he's still got the hots for him. Which is a brand new type of fucked up, even for Dean.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _Please tell me Rick's wife and child are alive._

 

Dean snorts. Fine, universe. Point made. Kill his boner.

 

> **From: Dean 10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _no way am I spoiling it for u_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _It's too late to watch another episode and if I don't find out now, I'm going to stay up even later thinking about it._
> 
> **From: Dean (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _sucks to be you_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _You don't care that this will annoy me?_
> 
> **From: Dean (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _nope_
> 
> **From: Dean (10:41 p.m.)**  
>  _and don't u dare wiki it you sneaky sob_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:42 p.m.)**  
>  _I don't even know what half of that means._
> 
> **From: Dean (10:42 p.m.)**  
>  _good let's keep it that way_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:44 p.m.)**  
>  _You're still awake. Why? Were you not able to sleep?_

 

Dean stares up at his ceiling, trying to regain his suddenly lost chill. If this was Sam bugging him, Dean would tell him to mind his own business and while he was at it, cut his freaking hair. If it was Lisa, he'd blow her off, and then hopefully get blown. But there's something about Cas, about knowing the guy but not really knowing him, that makes it easy to spill his guts. Or tempts him to, anyway. Probably this is how women fall in love with men in prison.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:45 p.m.)**  
>  _Do you want to talk about it?_

> **From: Dean (10:45 p.m.)**  
>  _you really wanna listen to a grown ass man whining about his problems?_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:45 p.m.)**  
>  _If it's you, yes._

 

Geez. There's an admission.

For a second Dean watches the little dots do their dance as Cas continues typing, but he must delete whatever he was going to say because it stops and nothing gets sent.

Then they start up again.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:46 p.m.)**  
>  _If you'd rather not discuss it, you can tell me instead if Merle gets rescued or not._
> 
> **From: Dean (10:45 p.m.)**  
>  _you and the spoilers man_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:46 p.m.**  
>  _I don't have great patience. Usually I prefer instant gratification._

 

Okay, that was like the third flirty text of the night. Dean's not going crazy here, Cas is definitely starting to lay it on thick. Not that Dean minds, or is going to acknowledge not minding ever again.

 

> **From: Castiel (10:47 p.m.)**  
>  _I can tell you're not going to budge. I better get to sleep anyway. Gabriel is making me try a new doughnut flavor tomorrow. I believe it's sugar piled on top of more sugar. I need to be fully rested for that._

> **From: Dean (10:47 p.m.)**  
>  _gimme a call if you go into a coma_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:48 p.m.)**  
>  _:)_
> 
> **From: Castiel (10:48 p.m.)**  
>  _Have a good night._
> 
> **From: Dean (10:48 p.m.)**  
>  _nite Cas_

 

+++  


"Scoot over, Sasquatch. Move it."

Dean pushes at Sam until Sam slides over a cushion, but not without first grunting his annoyance.

"What are we watching?" Dean asks once he's taken up half the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table next to Sam's unfinished salad.

Sam side-eyes him. "I'm watching a documentary. It's about GMOs and how--can you believe this?-- none of our food even gets labeled even though there's all these poisons--"

"Yeah, I don't think so." How it's not a reflex at this point for Sam to snatch the remote before Dean does is a real life mystery, but Dean of course gets to it first which means he's got dibs. That's law. He switches off Sam's documentary, which gets him a full, head-on glare.

Instead of putting on The Walking Dead like he'd like, he goes for Game of Thrones. It's something they've been watching together, up until recently anyway.

Sam doesn't comment on it, and neither does Dean. Just gets it playing and settles back. Before the credits even finish, Sam stands.

"I'm getting water. Want anything?"

Another beer would be awesome. He tells Sam, "Pie me."

"We don't _have_ pie." He can hear the eye-roll. Then, under his breath, "Not that you need it."

"Hey," Dean defends himself gruffly. Sam smirks and disappears into the kitchen. Dean pats at his stomach, jiggling the layer of skin that's taken over his six-pack. "Don't listen to him. He didn't mean it. He's just a tall toddler with stupid hair."  


+++  


The sun has barely even risen the next morning when his phone blares at him.

"'Lo," Dean slurs into it, rolling over onto his back. Oh, that is some nasty morning breath.

"Hello, Dean. I may be comatose in a minute."

Cas. It's Castiel, holy shit. Dean wakes up fast. He checks his phone's ID -- yup, that definitely says Castiel.

"Um."

"In Gabriel's mind, a perfectly reasonable doughnut to not only serve but sell, is one glazed in icing then topped with fudge-covered pieces of cake."

That sounds delicious. "That bad, huh?"

"Not if you like your teeth to vibrate. Gabriel is of course sulking because I told him not to put it on the menu."

Dean sits up a little more, sliding a tired hand down his face to wake himself up some. His beer's still on the night stand from the night before. What are the chances it doesn't taste like warm ass?

"Oh," Cas says. "Did I wake you? Sorry, I--"

"Nah, it's fine. You're fine."

"Okay." There's a pause, and in it, they seem to both realize this is the first time they've actually _talked_ to each other, the wedding aside. It's been two weeks of texting, but this. It's a first. "You said last night, to call. You probably didn't mean that literally."

Dean laughs quietly, running a hand through his hair. "Probably not," he admits, "but whatever, it's cool. You, uh. You sound like Darth Vader, only, you know--" He makes his voice gruffer. "'I like bees.'"

He can practically hear the reaction on the other end. "I don't sound like--"

'I don't sound like that,'" Dean mimics perfectly.

There's a pause.

"I wouldn't say 'I like bees' anyway," Cas defends.

"Dude, literally, like three texts a day from you? All about bees."

Another pause.

Dean says, "It's adorable," and then has the strong impulse to light himself on fire. _It's adorable_ , jesus christ, what the hell is he doing here.

"Yeah, so," he adds, losing cool points by the second. His brain literally feels like it's retreating in on itself.

"I should go. Gabriel is staring at me in a way that implies he's going to seek retribution in the form of arson. Which has happened before."

"Go protect your books, man."

"You're being sarcastic, but thank you. Goodbye, Dean."

"Bye, Cas," he says, only it's to a dial tone since Cas has already hung up.  


+++  


Now that the ice has been broken -- one weird phone call between them -- their friendship has been elevated to what Dean's sure is called 'bff' in certain circles. He's never really had a close friend that didn't come with the family name. It's sort of nuts but sort of awesome too that he'll wake up in the morning looking forward to a text from a guy he's barely even met.

Like this. This is the sort of thing he's talking about.

 

> **From: Castiel (6:53 a.m.)**  
>  _I'm in the wrong line of work.  
>    
>  _

 

It's hilarious, right? Dean smiles over it for a solid minute, and never once does he think it's strange that he's getting selfies from some dude. Cas, while out on a morning jog, saw that sign, took the picture, and had the thought to send it to Dean. That's his new normal.

 

> **From: Dean (9:04 a.m.)**  
>  _so what ur sayin is you need help stealing that sign_

 

He rolls out of bed in a good mood, sore back aside. Twenty-six and he could already use a good chiropractor. Old age is going to be awesome.

After showering, he pounds on Sam's door.

"Rise and shine, princess."

Sam's muffled response basically implies he oughta fuck off.

"C'mon, I'm dropping you off today before work. You've got twenty minutes!"

The door swings open to reveal Sam in all his bedheaded glory glowering on the other side.

"Hi," Dean smiles.

"Die," Sam retorts, pushing past to hog up the bathroom. The door slams shut behind him, and Dean's still smiling when Sam shouts his annoyance over the muggy, slightly damp state Dean left the bathroom in.

Back in his own room, Dean's pulling on his pants when he gets a new text.

 

> **From: Castiel (9:17 a.m.)**  
>  _I could do the lifting myself but the mechanics of unhinging it seems more your expertise._

 

See? BFFs.  


+++  
  
  
TBC

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, sure. BFFs. Nothing romantic happening ~at all.


End file.
